We move.
I jump across the first gap while Tilda lands lightly beside me a second later. The platform beneath us tilts slightly as the mechanism resets.
“Puzzle lock ahead,” she says.
“I see it.”
Three pressure plates sit in a triangular formation on the next platform.
“Left and center together,” she says.
I step onto them simultaneously.
The gate ahead clicks open.
We continue moving.
The difference between this run and the early days of the competition is subtle but undeniable. Instead of rushing ahead and forcing Tilda to adapt to whatever chaotic stunt I attempt next, I follow her pace.
When she says stop, I stop.
When she says move, I move.
The rhythm feels… efficient.
Halfway through the course we reach a narrow suspension bridge that sways dangerously under the arena wind generators.
“Slow,” she says.
“Got it.”
I step carefully onto the bridge, gripping the support cables while the structure shifts beneath my weight.
“You’re doing great,” she mutters.
“Please don’t start coaching like I’m a nervous horse.”
“You’re behaving like one.”
“Rude.”
But I keep moving exactly the way she told me.
Behind us another couple attempts to sprint across the bridge.
The cable whips sideways under their combined momentum.
They drop into the safety net below.
Elimination alarm.
I glance back once.
Then forward again.
“Focus,” Tilda says.
“Yes ma’am.”
